Chapter Thirty-Six: Dovetails and full-circles

A/N: Those of you who have read 'Legends' might recognise some of the dialogue at the beginning of this chapter……I couldn't resist tying this story into the epilogue of 'Legends' and expanding upon it a little.

Also I have noticed an error in continuity (gasp). In Legends it states that Fran has not told Balthier about Eruyt but of course, I had her do just that in this story (ooops...this is what happens when you write a trilogy in the wrong order!)

So, um, what Fran meant was that she hasn't told Balthier everything about Eruyt and that she has told him nothing about what she did for the last fifty years since leaving the Wood and before meeting him….err, yeah, so, that'll work! ;)

The mirror beckoned.

Upon waking that morning (rising with the lark and before the linnet) Balthier had found himself in an odd mood.

After successfully orchestrating an intra-gang war between Einar and almost everyone else for the last five weeks (and making an obscene amount of Gil in the process), he and Fran had decided to take a much needed vacation to a small, unpopulated Purveema on the edge of the Dorstonis air continent.

For the last week he, Fran, and Nono had lazed about in complete comfort on a semi-tropical floating island paradise with not a care in the world. Then he had grown bored, as he was wont to do.

So without fuss or rancour they had taken wing and flown down to be among the ground dwellers once more, which was the only reason the 'summons' had reached Balthier's ears in the first place; had he stayed put on his island he could have remained in blissful ignorance.

Alas what was done was done and now he was standing before the shaving mirror in the bathroom of the Strahl, staring into his unshaven reflection.

Staring into Ffamran's eyes.

'Balthier?'

Fran tapped on the closed door of the bathroom and startled Balthier from his rumination over his expression.

'One moment,' he called, bestirring himself to start and then finish his ablutions. He thought he heard Fran's long suffering sigh and then the muffled click of her heels on the metal grating of the gangway as she departed.

Balthier picked up his bone handled razor and then hesitated, foam on face and razor poised. Ffamran's eyes stared back at him from the other side of the mirror.

Shaking his head in disgust, and avoiding the direct gaze of his own personal revenant, Balthier began the process of shaving, which had become considerable more complex since he had decided to cultivate sideburns.

Though the extra time and care was worth it, Balthier thought. He rather liked them as he felt they leant him a distinguished air and belayed his youth. Fran seemed favourable as well, which was an added bonus.

After Balthier had washed the residue foam away from his clean shaven face he found himself face to face with Ffamran once more.

Wondering why he did it even as his hand moved, Balthier raised his palm to press it against the glass.

He did it not to obscure his view of the boy he used to be (a memory caught and frozen in an unguarded expression; a moments sombre reflection in a life spent engaged in idle witticism) but instead to embrace it.

After everything that had happened in the last year Balthier no longer wanted to run from Ffamran. He wanted to feel some level of acceptance, or at least a lasting truce, with who he used to be. After a year of war in Ivalice Balthier wanted to be at peace with himself.

He flexed his fingers over the misty surface of the mirror and Ffamran did the same from the other side.

Brown eyes met brown eyes. Balthier scrutinised the reflection, hunting for hints of the boy he barely remembered being; the childhood that had been good (gods damn it, but he had been so happy once; he and Cid, his father and the happy world that Ffamran had known).

Balthier looked critically at the man in the mirror; the fresh piercings in the rims and lobes of each ear (Fran had been incredulous, unable to understand how he could mutilate his ears in such a way).

He inspected the slanting sideburns that just brushed his cheeks and glared fiercely into the sharp, proud, fox-like features of his own face.

Eventually Balthier withdrew his hand from the mirror; there was no Ffamran here. There was only Balthier, only the man standing in front of the mirror. The boy was gone, lost, broken and doubtless forgotten by any who had once known him.

Balthier closed his eyes tightly against a strange muted sense of loss that sprang from the shadows in his heart; an emotion to amorphous to be regret or anger; to bright and sharp to be sadness or grief.

He did not regret what he had done or what he had become; he had worked too hard to attain the sky to mourn the loss of his shackles. Yet there was always something missing that he could not quite put his finger on (or more accurately simply did not wish to name).

The truth was, (and oh, it was a bitter truth) Balthier missed Ffamran.

Shaking his head against such strange, introspective thoughts, Balthier finished his grooming and washing and dressed swiftly, draping a towel over his shoulders as he walked towards the Strahl's cockpit.

'What kind of a name is Reddas anyway?'

Balthier demanded as he strode into the cockpit. He was still a little irked (not to mention wary) of this recent 'summons' to meet and greet the new pirate king of Balfonheim.

'An assumed one, I would surmise.' Fran murmured as Balthier dropped into his seat beside her.

Initially Balthier had refused the invitation, which, in turn, had only motivated Reddas to make it an offer he could not refuse (unless he wanted to become permanently persona non grata in Balfonheim) and thus he and Fran were now set to make all speed to Balfonheim to meet a man Balthier was almost certain he would dislike on principle alone.

He had an instinctive dislike of pirate kings; just thinking too long on the last one was like to give him phantom twinges where the whips bite had left trails of scars in lattice-like fashion across his back.

'Obviously.' Balthier agreed wreching himself from dark thoguhts. 'I was referring to the choice, more so than the providence.'

'It is lacking in elegance, I suppose?' Fran suggested as she started the engines.

'It lacks a certain mystique, I would argue.' Balthier smirked, livening up with and to the banter between them.

Fran glanced at him coolly and quirked a habitually eyebrow as he launched the Strahl upwards into the indigo night sky.

'The mystique of a name such as Balthier?'

Balthier smiled at Fran's pointed comment. In a gesture of reciprocity he had laid out for Fran his entire life story, barring only the details that were of no factual or entertainment value. He was tired of lying to the only friend he had. A pirate must have one person in his crew that he can be honest with, after all.

'A fine pirate name, certainly.' He demurred.

They were quiet for a short time, concentrating on nothing save making sure they did not fall from the sky (and despite the Strahl's temperamental tendencies there was little chance of that.)

'Do you suspect trouble?' Fran asked him as they sailed through moonlit sky towards Balfonheim.

Balthier glanced at her briefly, 'No. Do you?'

Fran shook her head, 'You seem tense.' She flicked a hand to indicate his general demeanour.

Balthier looked down at the new vest he wore, green and silver embroidery perhaps a little more understated than his usual fare, but the colour scheme would make up for that. Of course bright colours and a dazzling smile would not fool Fran.

He sighed, 'I am not thrilled with the prospect of making the acquaintance of another pirate king. I have no intention of giving fealty in any rate.'

'Rikken and Elza said only that Reddas wished to meet the pirate responsible for deposing Nylous. Do you not trust their word?'

Fran glanced at him once more before turning to check a weather formation building withershins to their current heading that might prove problematic if it continued to build.

'Oh, no more or less than I trust the word of any other pirate,' Balthier said in off-handed answer. He thought for a moment and then chose to elaborate.

'It is the fact that we know so little of this Reddas chap that bothers me. Pirates, especially those who would be kings, ought have a past.'

'Your words surprise me, Balthier, as you would seek to bury your own.'

Fran pointed out dryly as the lights of Balfonheim pricked the velvet dark horizon.

Balthier turned to throw a quick grin her way, though in truth her words rankled for some reason, 'That's true Fran, but I still have a past. This man Reddas appears from nowhere as if conjured from Mist.'

It was ironic, was it not, that he had just been pondering on the nature of abandoning ones past and now his conversation with Fran seemed to run eerily parallel with his own thoughts. Not for the first time Balthier entertained the notion that Fran could read his mind.

'Sky Piracy has made you paranoid, Balthier.' Fran teased gently jolting him from his darkening thoughts with impeccable timing.

Balthier scoffed, 'Paranoia is a fine thing in moderation but I prefer to consider this as due prudence.'

Fran allowed a ghost of a smile to light, briefly upon her lips, 'As you say, Balthier.'

They settled into companionable silence for awhile.

Within that companionable silence Balthier struggled to occupy his mind with something other than the strange - if not dissatisfaction – then a sense of restlessness, a creeping apprehension under the skin that stirred the spectres of old ghosts in his mind.

Deliberately and forcibly he wrested his thoughts from uncomfortably subjects of inquiry and thought instead on infamy.

'I have been thinking about our next caper, Fran.'

'We are destined for the Mosphoran Highwaste with the counterfeit Licence certificates.'

Fran reminded him leadenly. He knew she enjoyed their heists as much as he; but their partnership required at least one of them to keep a mind to the practicalities. Gil did not grow on trees after all.

Balthier, not wanting to be diverted, shook his head, 'That's business Fran. I was referring to our next big heist.'

Fran internalised her smile, waiting for the big reveal. He caught the slight flicker of something akin to amusement and keen interest heat her eyes briefly before she controlled it.

That one little quiver was enough for Balthier.

'In a little over six months Vayne Solidor is to take up his consulship of Dalmasca.'

Balthier informed Fran in a conversational tone of voice. He kept his eyes on the approaching Balfonheim.

Fran studied the read-outs of her monitors and gauges, making sure nothing untoward would affect their descent and landing into the port.

'I was aware of this.'

'Hmm.' Balthier all but purred, a smile twitching his lips.

'We have never stolen from Dalmasca before.'

Fran glanced at him as he brought the ship into dock smoothly.

'You once said that Dalmasca had nothing to offer the discerning thief but sunburn and Chocobo excrement.'

She reminded him pointedly.

Balthier turned to her as they powered down the ship. 'I'm sure there must be something of value in the treasury, Fran.'

Balthier had never had a great interest Dalmasca and did not in fact even like the crown city of Rabanastre (foul, stinking arid place) yet, the little itch in his mind, that he labelled as the lingering resentment and grief for Nabradia and Nalbina, had fixated on Dalmasca as, strangely, a chance to try again.

'Something Vayne Solidor would pay handsomely to have returned to him.'

This notion of 'trying again' disturbed Balthier even as it became an increasing obsession, for he did not precisely know what he wished to 'try again' at achieving and thus he did not allow himself to dwell on the matter too greatly.

It was much easier to enjoy one's self when one did not over-analyse one's motives.

Fran stared at him for a moment, Balthier gazed placidly back at her.

'You would extort the son of the Emperor with ransomed treasure?'

It was a rare event that he was able to shock Fran. It was almost worth it simply for the prize of startling Fran, even without the prospect of a veiled revenge.

A cunning grin slipped free of his façade of nonchalance, 'Why not? I need to perfect the art of blackmail and who better for a target than Vayne Solidor?'

Fran shook her head, 'You are like to be hanged.'

Balthier shook his head as they disembarked the Strahl and made their way to the Manse on Saccio Lane.

'Hung, drawn and quartered actually.' Balthier corrected her cheerfully, enjoying his game.

'Really Fran, if a man is to become a legend he cannot do so through petty forgery and smuggling. He must make sure to have his name on the lips of every man, woman and child in Ivalice.'

'As the fool who thought to blackmail the most powerful man in Ivalice; the commander in chief of the Archadian army, and suffered accordingly?'

Fran questioned dryly, Balthier scowled, though with very little actual rancour. It was simply the reaction needed to play out the jest.

'Fran please; give me some credit, I shall not be caught.'

'You are so confident of this, Balthier?'

They had reached the Manse and could see Rikken and Elza waiting for them by the large front doors.

Balthier turned and smirked at Fran, almost ready to deliver the coup-de-grace of his elaborate jest.

'Of course Fran; I am supremely confident that I can pull off such a caper once I have properly planned out the details. '

'Why?'

They stopped for a moment before heading up to the door to meet the other two and be introduced to the elusive Reddas.

Balthier was grinning with the anticipatory pleasure of the expected payoff that he would derive from his little game of words.

'Because I have something no other pirate has ever had.'

He was determined to draw out the suspense and Fran seemed willing to be an indulgent audience.

'And that is?'

'You, Fran; I have you.'

Balthier promptly pivoted on his heel and made his way towards Rikken and Elza. He did not wait to observe Fran's response. He smiled slyly where Fran could not see him as she hesitated before joining him.

This was the game, his way of making sure Fran knew how much he appreciated her, and part of the performance was to allow Fran the privacy of her reactions.

He did not seek reciprocity of sentiment; he no longer craved validation or assurance from his partner. He no longer wanted anything from Fran except the pleasure of her company for as long as she wished to give it.

That was his true gift to her; Balthier simply hoped that she knew it. He rather thought that she did.

Fran came abreast with him as he reached Rikken and Elza. Balthier, affecting his usual mien with the two port-based pirates (more facilitators of the trade than active members of the sky pirates fraternity, but no less important for the fact), contrived to affect a frown of irritation on his countenance and folded his arms across his chest.

'This had better be good; Fran and I are busy people.'

'Reddas wanted t'meet yer.' Rikken replied stolidly.

'And that is reason enough to inconvenience me, is it? I had not thought you would become the faithful hound to a pirate king, Rikken. Or did Reddas simply offer a larger bribe than Nylous, hmm?'

Neither Rikken or Elza replied (they knew him too well) and without a word Rikken turned and pulled open the doors to the Manse. Elza sauntered in ahead, presumably to warn her new master of their arrival.

Balthier deliberately did not ask Rikken anything about this 'Reddas' man, not because he was not afire with curiosity, but because he would sooner chop off his right hand than admit to being so curious to the other man.

There was a good chance that Rikken, silent and laconic, was well aware of how curious and conflicted Balthier was currently feeling standing in the large foyer of the Manse, the sea breeze scent accenting the air, and that alone added to Balthier's agitation.

Certainly Fran could sense his agitation as was evident when she stepped closer to him. She did not make any comment or draw attention to her action but her presence near by soothed Balthier all the same.

The double doors to one of the downstairs rooms opened and Elza strolled out, hips swinging provocatively.

''E'll see yer now.' She walked past Balthier and Fran with no more than a jerk of her golden tressed head towards the doors. Balthier glanced at Fran, who shrugged minutely, and then, affecting nonchalant unconcern, Balthier led the way into the large study.

His first awareness of the study and the single man in occupation was a mishmash of disparate impressions absorbed by the eyes before the mind placed their significance.

He saw a large bay window and billowing gauzy white curtains flapping in the sea breeze. The dark and shadow canvas of the ocean and the night sky picked out in relief through the window, a profound contrast to the creamy pastel and beige hues of the furniture and fixtures in the study.

The man behind the large ash wood desk, rising from the swivel chair, froze in mid gesture of greeting as Balthier and Fran walked in.

Balthier took in the balding pate, the wild, white sideburns (which were new and less a fashion statement than a reflection of a disinterest in appearance) and the ebony skin its own stark contrast to the white hair.

Mind and eye connected and recognition froze the blood in Balthier's veins.

The man behind the desk swore as he too recognised Balthier. The man's accent was a roiling mix of Naldoa Island sonorous rhythms and crisp Archadian inflection that Balthier remembered all too well, though it had been years since he had heard that voice.

Balthier's body reacted in a mixture of aggressive self-preservation and uncoiled rage that he had not known himself capable of. The dagger had no sooner jumped to his hand before he had flung it, with deft procession, straight at the man's head.

The older man ducked and the dagger twanged and shuddered as the tip embedded into the wooden frame of the bay window.

Possessed of an animalistic terror and fury, that he would forever deny being capable of hereafter, Balthier had leapt over the table top and caught the older man by the shirt lapels before the vibrations of the dagger had sounded in the air.

'You? How can it be….?' The man seemed more astounded by Balthier's presence than concerned for his safety as Balthier slammed him against the wall with one arm pinning his throat.

In response to the question and the recognition in the older man's eyes (all fuel to the fire of his screaming terror to be so recognised) Balthier punched the man in the jaw and watched him fall to the floor.

Fran, who had been momentarily too surprised to react, now rushed forward and caught Balthier around the chest. She jerked his arms, painfully, behind his back so that he could not continue to attack the man who slowly picked himself up from the ground, rubbing the blood from his chin.

Balthier's whole being seemed to reverberate with a near mindless terror. Something beyond reason that sang in his blood like the most sublime fury but shook his bones with gut wrenching fear.

'Zecht.' He hissed.

The Judge Magister rose to his feet, still appearing too surprised to react to the aggression he had just suffered.

'Ffamran? Ffamran Bunansa, good gods - You are Balthier?'

Balthier twitched, freezing in Fran's arms. He wanted to yell out at the top of his lungs to drown the man's words in noise. He wanted to run as fast as he could from this Manse and Balfonheim altogether and never stop.

He did neither, frozen by shock and the monstrous, sickening sense that he had brought this on himself by invoking Ffamran's ghost.

'Balthier who is this man?' Fran asked coolly, still holding tightly to him, acutely away of his precarious state between flight and murderous aggression.

Balthier felt his lip curl in hate as he looked into the Judge Magister's eyes, 'Zecht; a Magister of Archadia and a hound of Empire.'

A vague memory forced itself into Balthier's awareness as he felt Fran react slightly to his words and saw the shuttered look close down in Zecht's eyes. Balthier tried to follow the memory…..something Jules had said in Safrosa Bay, something about Zecht and…..

'I am Zecht no longer; I am Reddas now. The Magister is no more and my loyalty to the Empire severed most cruelly and bitterly.' Zecht was saying but Balthier barely heard him. He was still chasing that errant memory.

……..Jules and Zecht, Jules and Zecht…..what is the connection? What was it Jules said…….something about an illicit visit to……

Balthier sucked in a breath of horrified comprehension as the memory resolved itself all at once, 'Nabudis.'

Zecht had been speaking but upon hearing the name of the fallen kingdom froze mid-word; a look of exquisite, wild horror and grief chased across the broad planes of the older man's face.

'I know not what you refer to.'

Zecht said leadenly and his words were so close an echo to Balthier's oft spoken evasion ('I have no idea to what you refer') that Balthier flinched. He could recognise in Zecht's garish ensemble (too many clashing colours, too much fabric and texture) the garb of one trying to escape the steel and monotony of Judge's armour; the uniform of the Archadian escapee.

Balthier felt himself sag against Fran's arms, sickening realisation crashing over him. He struggled to find a question whose answer he wanted to hear. All too aware of the question he did not need an answer to.

Nabudis……..it was Zecht….the fire of Nabudis was Zecht…..yet if that is so why is he here; and why is guilt laden on his every breath?

'How long?' Balthier croaked and knew that Zecht would understand his meaning. They were both fleeing Archades now; Balthier merely had a four and a half year head start.

Zecht nodded his head slowly in understanding, the haunted, shuttered look still in his eyes.

'Seventeen months and fifteen days.' Zecht replied succinctly; exactly the time elapsed since Nabudis' fall.

Balthier shook his arms abruptly, and reluctantly, Fran released him. The momentary violence that had afflicted him had run its course; now Balthier merely felt hollow.

'They call you Reddas?' he made it a question.

The former Judge nodded, 'The name I chose.'

It was Balthier's time to nod in agreement. He understood implicitly what 'Reddas' did not say. He knew what it was to seize control of one's own will from another, after all.

'I am Balthier,' he gestured to Fran, 'this is my partner Fran.'

Reddas looked thoughtful, for a moment something like wry amusement passed over his features before being subjugated by the grief that drew taut his expression.

'Balthier? The Cautionary tale of the Rogue Balthier?' Reddas queried.

Balthier rolled his eyes, unable to resist the expression of annoyance. For the most part the obscure fable was not well known but every now and then some literary soul would try to make some pithy comment and Balthier had little choice but to grin and bear it.

'No,' he replied succinctly, almost petulantly, 'not remotely like that.' He muttered and again there was just the faintest hint of amusement quickly doused in Reddas' countenance.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence filled with the questions Balthier would not ask (for fear of being doubly burdened by the answers) and Reddas would not speak of in shame of the truth.

'Do you have an airship?' Balthier eventually asked, unable to endure the silence any longer.

Reddas, surprised by the abrupt change in subject, nodded. 'Yes.' A tiny smile, 'And, you, you stole that old Strahl from the hangars didn't you?'

Balthier nodded stiffly, not wanting to talk of then. 'You should take her out; your ship I mean.' He mumbled almost incoherently. Reddas frowned curiously.

Balthier shrugged, 'It helps.' He said simply turning away from Reddas and walking towards the doors to the study. Fran, moving like a patient, supportive ghost, fell into step behind him.

'The sky is too large a place for regret. If you have truly left the Empire behind you, do not waste the life you have locked in service to a past you cannot change. You should fly where memory cannot touch you.'

He was almost out of the doors and into the foyer when Reddas (Zecht – for Balthier knew that an alias was only skin deep) called after him.

'Do you not want to know what happened after you left the Capital? You do not want to know what has become of your father?'

Balthier could not be sure but he thought he heard a dark, maligned undercurrent of some deep and brutal emotion infect Reddas' tone upon the faint allusion to Cidolfus Bunansa, but he dismissed it as an imposition of his own imagination.

Slowly Balthier turned to face Reddas in the threshold of the study doorway.

'Why would I want to hear the reminiscences of a past neither of us will ever publicly acknowledge?' he queried dryly. 'The past is dead and buried where it lies and I have no will to rake over old bones.'

Balthier directed one arched brow at the other man, 'And I suspect you have even less incentive to do so, hmm?'

Reddas laughed, a harsh, caustic sound, 'Aye the past is dead; long live the past.' He spat.

Balthier, with Fran at his heels, walked out of the study and the Manse without a backward glance; Reddas' last words echoing loudly in Balthier's thoughts with every footfall.

Fran's hand reached out to snag his sleeve drawing him to a halt. Her eyes cool but gentle, no sympathy or pity in her regard, but an understanding that was greater than either.

'We fly?' she queried.

Balthier nodded, 'Yes, far, far away from here.'

The past is dead; long live the past.

Zecht and Nabudis.

You do not want to know what has become of your father.

A/N: Two chapters to go!